


Domesticity

by Vega62a



Category: Maria-sama ga Miteru
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 14:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13483437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vega62a/pseuds/Vega62a
Summary: A series of short stories about the best and worst thing in the world.





	1. One

A/N 

It feels like coming home, doesn’t it? 

* * *

This is a story for the older folks among us. I started writing in Marimite when I was young, and I’m not anymore. I expect a lot of you will find most of these pretty boring. That’s okay.

Domesticity

A vignette or two about the best and worst thing on the planet

 

* * *

 

One

Yumi

 

                Sachiko Ogasawara absolutely _loved_ her home. No – _adored_ it was probably a better word. To the other parishioners, it was most of what she talked about. The cute tile backsplash she’d put in her kitchen; the claw-foot tub she’d put in her western-style restroom, the fact that, now that she’d moved out into the country, she actually had a _basement_ now, and a _yard,_ unheard of in even the smallest cities.  She could get a large dog, and an outdoor grill for yakiniku.  She was thinking about building a three-season porch. She had recently added a little veranda. The hardware store clerks knew her by name, but she knew their shop better than they themselves did.

                What was strange about this was the fact that, had she simply made an effort to hold on to her part of the will, she could have had all of this and more in Tokyo in a property that could only rightly have been described as an _estate_. Her home in the country, adorable though it may have been, could have fit into the garage of that estate.  

                Instead, she had taken a considerable but proportionally tiny sum of money as her inheritance, donated a quarter to the church, saved another quarter, and used the rest to buy her house in the country. It had been a huge hassle for Yumi, who taught school in the city, and had a half hour train ride tacked on to her daily commute.

                Secretly, though, Yumi adored her house too. She loved its creaks and groans; she loved the Japanese-style layout of the rooms; and she loved the dog they had been able to get – a big Chocolate lab they’d named Kameko after they noticed that anytime she was nervous, she’d hide under whatever was nearby.

                What Yumi did not adore, however, was the church.

                “I actually found a really good supplier for bamboo – I know the typical style for a woodworking shed is oak and white paint, but I was thinking about making it seem more like an old-fashioned thing,” Sachiko said, to Mori or Naoko or whoever she was talking to. She was in the middle of describing – for the third time – her latest scheme to give herself splinters and blisters, and Yumi was itching to leave.

                She tugged at the hem of Sachiko’s dress, feeling like a small child again, and Sachiko quickly interrupted what she was saying, turned to Yumi, and said, “hold on a sec,” then continued. Yumi tuned her out, feeling the old irritation flare in her gut, but knowing there was not a thing she could do short of picking a fight, which she did not want.              

                Eventually, Sachiko finished her description of the woodworking shed (which was strange, since Sachiko did no woodworking) and Chikako or Tatsumi or whoever the hell made the appropriate noises of approval, and Sachiko finally turned her attention to Yumi. “What’s up?” she asked, but her eyes said she already knew what was up, and that she did not want to talk about it just then.

                Yumi, however, did. “We should go,” she said. “It’s time.” She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice, but she could see from the look on Sachiko’s face – first taken aback, and then irritated herself, and then, finally, neutral – that she had failed.

                “Not yet, I wanted to talk to Takurou about –”

                “Service has been out for almost an hour. I’m ready.”

                Sachiko paused for only a moment, and Yumi saw her deciding whether or not to make an issue out of it. The problem was, this was how they had left church for the last four weeks in a row – Yumi seeming to drag her away from just one more conversation that she wanted to have. She hated feeling like the bad guy, like the nag, but she hated staying even more.

                 Sachiko, however, must have seen something in Yumi’s face too, or else she simply didn’t want to talk to Takebono or whoever, who the fuck cared who he was, as much as she had claimed.

                “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get our coats. I’ll try not to get too sidetracked on our way out.”  
               

* * *

 

                She did not get too sidetracked on her way out – possibly, again, due to the look on Yumi’s face – but she did make an issue out of it as they pulled out of the large parking lot that she had paid for with that quarter of her inheritance.

                “I really don’t appreciate you just pushing me out of there all the time. I have friends at that church, and I’m sure it seems like you don’t even care about them when you drag me away like that,” she said.

                “As friends go, they can’t be that close,” Yumi said, irritation flaring in her gut again, “or I’m sure we’d have seen them over at the house ever. I sure as shit didn’t see them at the hospital last year.”

                 “That’s not fair,” Sachiko said. “They have their own lives.”

                “And we have ours,” Yumi said, “and you know I hate it in there, and I don’t get why you make me come every week.”

                “I don’t _make_ you come,” Sachiko said. “You’re a grown woman, you can do whatever you want.”

                “You know what I mean,” Yumi shot back. “Last time I didn’t go to church with you you looked at me like I kicked your dog.”

                “I just don’t think it’s fair to not go to church just because you don’t like coffee hour afterwards.”

                “It’s not that I don’t like coffee hour afterwards. It’s that I …” she clamped her mouth shut.

                “What?” Sachiko said, not like she was curious, but like she wanted Yumi to say it.

                “Nothing.”

                “ _What_?” Not angry. Just firm.

                Yumi sighed, but didn’t open her mouth. Sachiko’s face softened, as did her tone. She put her hand on Yumi’s, and in spite of her irritation, Yumi gripped it gently.

                “I just…don’t like church.”

                Sachiko nodded, as though she’d been expecting it. Yumi realized that she probably had.

                “Not just the coffee hour,” she said.

                “Not just the coffee hour,” Yumi agreed. “All of it. I’m not comfortable there. I feel like everyone’s judging me.”

                “For what?” Sachiko asked. Again, she knew the answer, and Yumi knew she did.

                “You know for what.”                   

                “But you need to say it.”

Yumi did, and she knew it, but she didn’t have to like it. Didn’t have to like how she _always_ knew.

                “For us. For being gay. Do you think we’d still be welcome there if you hadn’t…”

                “Maybe not,” Sachiko said. "Probably not, even.”

                “How can you want to stay there, then? Knowing that the only reason they tolerate us is the money? Isn’t it just like your family…” Yumi bit her lip, feeling herself going too far, stopping her self before she did. 

                Sachiko didn’t speak for a moment, but she didn’t let go of Yumi’s hand, either.  

                Eventually, she spoke again, slowly. “As a church, the only reason they tolerate us is the money. Individually…”

                “A church is made up of individuals.”

                “It is and it isn’t.” Sachiko bit her lip for a second. “You remember a few years ago, how bad it got at the school? How everything just seemed so toxic, all the time?”

               Yumi nodded. She had seriously considered taking early retirement that year, just living off of Sachiko’s inheritance. She hated the prospect – hated the prospect of not being self-sufficient – but it had gotten bad. She had taken to drinking, and…

Well, it had been bad.

                “No, no, I’m not trying to guilt…please don’t go there, that’s not where I wanted you to go.”

                “Hard not to,” Yumi said quietly.

                “For you. I’ve forgiven you.”

                It was Yumi’s turn to be silent.

                “Please, put that away for now. If you want to talk about it more, let’s talk about it more later, but it wouldn’t help. It’s passed.”

                With effort, Yumi said, “I guess.”

                Sachiko smiled, and squeezed her hand. “It’s passed. So, can I finish my story, or are you going to be all mopey for the rest of the ride?”

                Yumi sniffed. “I feel genuinely bad. I don’t like being called _mopey_ when—”

                Sachiko poked her cheek.  “Mopey-pants. Some people wear skirts, some wear jeans, a few maybe even still wear bloomers, and you’re wearing mopey pants. Taaaaaaaaake ‘em off.” She stretched the word out comically, and Yumi grinned a little, in spite of herself.

                “Stop dwelling and let me tell my story.”

                “Yes, missus author ma’am.”

                “Good. So you remember how bad it was at school. Do you remember who was causing it?”

                Yumi opened her mouth to answer, and then closed it. She wanted to blame half a dozen people, but knew that it wasn’t really any of their faults. Individually, they were all fine people, some of whom Yumi had genuinely liked, but as a working unit, they were just…

                "Nobody, I guess. It was just…the atmosphere.”

                “And do you remember who fixed it?”

                “I mean, everyone, I guess.”

                “Everyone. A person at a time, right?”

                “Yeah, a person at a time.”

                “Yeah, a person at a time.” Sachiko repeated, and smiled, and then Yumi scowled.

                “I feel like I’m being taught a lesson, here.”

                “Feels weird to be on the other side of it, huh.”

                “It does,” Yumi said. “So, one person at a time.”

                “Individually, I actually like them a lot,” Sachiko said. “It’s not about trying to change things. I like them, and I wish you’d stop thinking poorly of them just because…well,” her mouth twisted in a wry grin, “just because the organization they identify with considers us to be awful people damned to eternal fire and brimstone. Eventually, it’ll get better. I’ll make it get better.”

                Yumi sighed. “That’s probably fair. I still don’t feel comfortable there. I wish you’d stop making me go.” Sachiko opened her mouth to speak, and Yumi said quickly, “And before you say it – I know you don’t twist my arm, or chase me there with a knife, or anything. Just…I don’t want to go, and I wish you’d just be okay with that. I’m not a catholic anymore, Sacchan.”

                Sachiko sighed. “Do you get why that bugs me?”

                “Because you are, and it’s something that’s important to you, and I used to be, and it seems weird to you that I’d just … stop.”

                “Basically that, yes.”

                “But I did. I did just stop, and I don’t want to un-stop.”

                “Un-stop? Are you teaching our kids Japanese, or what?”

                “Technically I’m teaching them history.”

                Sachiko smiled, and seemed to settle back in the seat a bit. “Okay. That’s fair. I don’t like it, but it’s fair, and it’s your choice, and you’re right. I should respect that.”

                Yumi smiled. “Thank you.”          

                “Will you still come for special occasions? Easter, Christmas, baptisms, stuff like that?”

                Yumi considered for a second, and then nodded. “For you, yes, I will. As long as you don’t abuse that or anything, I’ll come on days when you really want me to.”

                Sachiko smiled then, and squeezed Yumi’s hand. They drove on in silence for another ten minutes.

                “Did you still want to talk about…”

                “No,” Yumi said, a little more sharply than she’d wanted to.

                “Okay,” Sachiko said calmly. “I don’t need to talk about it, but if you do, we can talk anytime.”

                Yumi nodded, and said no more.

                After another minute of silence, Sachiko said, “I love you, you know.”   

                Yumi looked at her. “Still?”

                Sachiko smiled. “Still. It’ll take a hell of a lot more than that to make me stop.”  

                Yumi looked, just for an instant, like she might cry. Then that, too, passed, and she said, “I love you too. So, so much.”

                Yumi squeezed Sachiko’s hand, and they finished the ride home like that. When they got home, they let Kameko out of her kennel and played an abbreviated form of fetch wherein they threw a ball to their dog, who brought it to one spot, whether they were there or not.  They cooked a simple meal of grilled chicken and rice for dinner. Yumi had a couple of glasses of wine, but no more, and when they went to bed, they made love.

                Sachiko drove Yumi to the station the next day, and then settled down to write.

                And that week passed much as the one before it had.


	2. Two

A/N

Yes, this was written on a Sunday morning. Yes, Japanese companies are really like that. Being a salaryman (or salarywoman) is one of the worse fates you can encounter in Japan.

 

Wrote this one in an hour. Writing is slowly getting easier as I stretch that muscle, but I’m aware that this is still fairly rough, and maybe unfocused. Be gentle!

 

At least partially for /u/The Quiet Place; I hope you feel better soon!

Two

A Sunday Morning

 

                Sunday morning was Shimako Toudou’s favorite time of the week.

                In Tokyo, temples are almost anachronistic refuges of peace and quiet. Shimako liked to imagine that even the sounds of the city became a little more humble upon entering. Generally, there wasn’t a lot of foot traffic this early in this particular neighborhood, and so it was mostly the elderly, clean and respectful, who stopped by to say a prayer and drop in a coin or two. Shimako didn’t feel a strong need to do much after she opened the gates for the day, even foregoing her _miko_ for a simple blouse and pair of jeans. Sei was typically still asleep at this time of morning – _sleeping it off,_ most commonly – so Shimako, unlike any other day of the week, found that she had an abundance of time – time which, many years ago, had made her antsy, not knowing what to do with herself.

                This morning, she read a book and drank tea. The tea was mild and nutty, a fine _sencha_ that was one of her few splurges, in a small plain white white mug. The morning was crisp, chilly but not cold, and in spite of her slight frame, she found that with the tea’s warmth she didn’t need much else.  Though the sounds of the city were muted, birds chirped lazily above the rock garden’s tree cover. The book was a bit of a potboiler, but that was okay. She much preferred reading a potboiler novel to watching potboiler television, or reading potboiler articles on the internet. The breeze, scented with the first hints of leaves making ready to fall, ruffled her hair but did not disturb her book – again, as though out of respect. From inside the temple came the not-so-gentle sound of Sei’s snoring.

                At first, Shimako hadn’t known what to do with the snoring, either. It had been decades since either of them were prim and proper teenagers at a Catholic school, and so the days when such noises might have made them blush had long passed. But it woke her up, without fail, every Sunday morning. Saturday night was not the only night Sei drank with her coworkers, but for some reason, it was the only night she snored.  Maybe that, too, was out of respect. Or maybe it was just that by the time Sei was deep enough into sleep to snore on other nights, it was time for her to wake up and go back to work.

                After a while, Shimako noticed that what she had affectionately dubbed her _background music_ had stopped. A pit seemed to form in her stomach, and she was momentarily torn between just continuing to read, hoping that Sei was still asleep, and going to check if she needed breakfast. It wasn’t that Sei was _unwilling_ to make her own breakfast – only that she wasn’t very good at it, and without fail, regardless of how much or little Shimako nagged, she left the kitchen a mess in the process. She never outwardly _said_ something like _I work all week, and this is my one day off, so can you please just take care of it,_ but Shimako knew that was the gist, and so she preferred to forego the tension that could cause entirely and just do the whole thing. She made about five times fewer dishes in the process, and besides – she couldn’t stand to think of Sei eating cup ramen for breakfast on a Sunday where both of them were home with nothing to do.

                “Babe?” came the voice of her _(partner? Girlfriend? Wife? Lover.)_ Shimako grimaced. “You up?”

                Shimako sighed, put down her book, picked up her teacup, and made her way into the bedroom they shared. Sei was sitting up in their western-style bed, her hair tousled, her eyes bleary. “I wish you wouldn’t shout,” Shimako said. “It could disturb anybody who might be praying.”

                Sei grimaced. “Don’t chastise me this early in the morning, okay?”

                Shimako noted that she had _not_ used the word “nag,” and smiled inwardly, though she didn’t let it show on her face. Maybe the counselling had been doing some good after all.

                Shimako took a quick break, counted to two in her head, and said, “I won’t, I’m sorry. Just try not to yell in the temple. Maybe you could text me or something, I had my phone on—” she put her hand on the small pocket of her jeans, and frowned. “I didn’t.”

                Sei held up her phone and gave her a wry smile. “Tried already. Next time I’ll just get up and find you. I didn’t brain very well, I’m sorry.”

                Once again, Shimako could not help but want to smile – but this time, she let it touch her face. “Forgiven. Did you want breakfast?”

                Sei shook her head. “I can do it. I just wanted to know if you had slept okay.” She frowned for a second. “I guess that was way more important in my head. I just know I had a lot to drink last night, and I probably stank a little when I came in.”

                “It’s okay,” Shimako said. “You didn’t do anything bad. Do you need some antacids or anything?”

                “No, my stomach’s fine,” Sei said, and then winced and put her hand to her gut. “Or…maybe some toast?”

                Shimako nodded. “There’s really no way you can not…”

                “It’s the _company loyalty_ shit, babe, and I’m the token woman along with being one of the team. I’m the office lady and the engineer at the same time, so I’m supposed to pour everyone else’s but also drink till my eyes bleed. I’m sorry. I’d escape if I could.”

                “I understand,” Shimako said, although she didn’t.  She had never held an office job, never been a salaryman, nor had any member of her family, so at her core, she simply didn’t understand. But what her counsellor had said really had made sense – _people who aren’t you have a context that’s not yours, and they do what they can within that context, and they understand it in a way you never can. Since we’ve established that Sei isn’t lying to you, all you can do is take her at her word when she talks about her own context._

                “After that, I’ll go back to sleep, if that’s okay with you,” Sei said, a little too quickly for Shimako not to suspect that she …what?

                That she _knew_ about Sunday Mornings. Knew they were hers.

                Shimako thought about this as she went to the kitchen, put on a kettle, and made a piece of toast. She supposed that if their counsellor had talked to her about context, maybe she had talked to Sei about it as well. Maybe they had spoken at some length about why she was so touchy on Sunday mornings when Sei woke up, why they fought more often on Sunday mornings than at any other time.

                Maybe Sei was trying, too.

                Shimako smiled as she brought the dry piece of toast back to Sei, who accepted it gratefully. She ate it carefully over the plate it had been brought on, and then handed it back to Shimako. “Thanks,” she said, “for taking care of me.”

                _This morning,_ Shimako thought, _I’m not taking care of you. I think you’re letting me take care of me._

She kissed Sei on the forehead, and then, after some trepidation, on the mouth.  Sei’s eyes widened for a moment, but then she relaxed, let the kiss deepen. Neither of them forced it, it simply moved on its own. After a moment, Shimako moved her hand to Sei’s breast, caressed it. Sighed inwardly at how firm it was, even now, where her own had begun to sag.

                “You sure?” Sei murmured. “I don’t want to take you away from your Sunday morning.”

                “You can go back to sleep after,” Shimako said with a grin in her eye.

Sei laughed louder than she’d meant to, and then looked her in the eye and said, seriously, “I love you, you know. And I’m sorry. For everything.”

“I love you too,” Shimako said. “Don’t be sorry right now. I want to do this and go back to my Sunday morning.” This last, with a teasing lilt in her voice.

She started on her jeans.

 

 

 


	3. Three

A/N

I feel like the writing bug has left me, and that makes me really, really sad. I haven’t really put effort into writing something for near on a decade now. How fucked is that?  In college, I originally wanted to double major in creative writing, and use the _engineering thing_ to support my _dirty habit._ I poured myself into my stories – not just Fake and Resolution, but hundreds of pages worth of original fiction, as well. But it felt like – after typing _the end_ on Fake, there just wasn’t much left worth writing about. It felt like the universe of writing had just shifted away from me. It felt like watching my beautiful lover swagger off into the sunset, hips swaying, not even turning back for a last look.

I think lover is an apt description, too, because here’s the truth – it’s not that she was just staying with me through a flight of fancy. She and I were in a relationship, and relationships take work, on both sides. I stopped putting work into her, too. When I opened up Word and felt that little clenching of my stomach, the little voice in my head that says _nothing you write is worth reading,_ instead of ignoring it, I listened to it. That happens in relationships, too, and if you stop pushing forward, stop ignoring that voice, the relationship goes away.

So, I guess this is me trying again. Probably not too many folks here still remember my other works, and I think I like it that way. I’m not quite ready to pull a full Joe Hill, though.

* * *

 

Three

Dungeons and Dragons

                Familial relationships are strange things. They are supposed to be the one effort-optional relationship on the planet, blessed with that rarest of attributes, _unconditional love._ It doesn’t matter if you’re calling your sister or your brother or your cousin or your mother up a week or a month or two years since the last time you spoke with them – they’re supposed to pick up and act like _you matter_ to them, like the time where you didn’t give a shit about one another occurred in some other universe, and it was simultaneously 2016 and 2012 for the duration of your conversation.

                Of course, the world of _supposed to_ and the world that Yoshino Shimazu actually inhabited were, in truth, only related by the color of the ocean and a couple of volcanic islands somewhere out in the pacific. In Yoshino’s world – colloquially, _the real one –_ her stomach was busy knotting itself tighter than a pair of earbuds in a teenager’s jeans pocket. Part of her wished she’d made the decision to drive rather than take the train – at least driving would give her something to focus on.

                When she had told Atsushi that she was going to be taking the train out to Kyoto to spend the evening playing Dungeons and Dragons with some high school friends, neither of his responses had been particularly comforting – _I didn’t think you still talked to them past the card at Christmas?_ Followed closely by _will you still be able to make my dinner tomorrow?_

                Not, _I’ll miss you, I wish you didn’t have to spend the night._ Not, _sleeping alone is gonna feel lousy, but I hope you have a great time._ Not even, _how about a quick fuck for the road?_ Just, _will you be home in time to perform the only service I care about?_

                She wondered if Atsushi had a mistress, and if so, if there was a strict _no dinner_ rule they enforced, like a prostitute informing her client she’d do anything but kiss him on the mouth.

                _I can’t tell them about this._

_I can’t be that shallow to them._

She knew it was probably too late. They probably hadn’t even been expecting her to accept the invite.

                _Lillian Student Council Reunion and D &D Satan-fest! Play the Devil’s Game and promote witchcraft and heresy in your pure ladies’ hearts! Imbibe more wine than is even remotely proper for a daughter of Christ! Compliment Sachiko on her new shed! One of those things is not like the others, but by the time we’re done with you, you won’t have a clue which one – you’ll only know that to figure it out, you’ll need to make a high perception check!_

It had gone out to what she now thought of as _the core group_ from her time in the yamayurikai, the girls with whom she had taken that lovely road trip in her senior year – Sei, Shimako, Sachiko, Yumi, Yoshino herself, and –

_Rei._

It was a mark of the girls’ success in life that Yumi had even been able to consider hosting a one-night event all the way out in Kyoto, given that most of them still lived in Tokyo, playing a game that Yoshino had never even heard of before a week ago, when she’d gotten the invite.         

On the outside, it had all the trappings of something that she herself hadn’t wanted to do – something she had been pushed into doing, something she had designed to fail so that she just _wouldn’t have to see these people_ after so long; wouldn’t have to endure the awkward attempts at conversing about a time before any of them could even say the word _sex_ without turning beet red and stumbling all over themselves; where they poured wine down their throats as fast as gravity and fluid dynamics would allow it to be poured in an effort to rid themselves of the overwhelming desire to just _leave_ , to be back where relationships were kept current, to be away from the nagging question – _why didn’t you stay in touch?_

                It’s what she would have done.

* * *

 

                The party (game? Reunion?  Utter fucking nightmare?) had been scheduled to start at around five in the evening,  but _Lillian Time_ had been encouraged, meaning everybody might be helping to sweep and set up as early as noon. Yoshino had taken the 1:56 train, which arrived at 4:01. Sachiko’s house was another thirty-minute train ride from Kyoto Station, and another twenty minute walk from there, according to Google Maps.

                _There’s still time. Comment on the invite – sorry, Atsushi’s sick, gotta skip this one, have a great time ladies! – and just hop the return train. Maybe if you’re lucky Atsushi will have fallen asleep on the couch by the time you get home._

 _But make sure you turn location services off_ _because they’ll be able to see you’re posting from Kyoto._

_Did you even accept the invite? Did you remember to click that “going” button, or did you put it off? Do they even know you’re coming? Are you going to show up and they’re going to say, “shit, sorry, I had only prepared for everybody but you, but you’re welcome to sit and watch if you like! Can you afford a hotel? There’s one over by the station.”_

_Train back to Tokyo is leaving, last chan—_

                “Ma’am? Could you please step back from the yellow line?”

A security guard, perhaps forty years old, straight-backed and neutral, but with his eyes fixed directly on her.   She hadn’t even realized where she was.  Her training – how to be proper and demure in every conceivable social situation, even one that may look to an outsider like an attempted suicide by train – saved her, but it was a near thing.

                “Oh! I’m so sorry, sir. The station is so large, and I got overwhelmed thinking about where my next train might be.” She took a step off the yellow line just as the Shinkansen began to accelerate out of its berth.  

                Even from a distance, nobody would have mistaken the man for convinced.  “Wasn’t this train coming from Tokyo Station?” A much larger train station.

                “Oh, yes, but my husband helped me find my train while I was there. You know, it’s so much easier with him around.” _Tee-hee. Just little old me, incapable of independently utilizing my nation’s transportation infrastructure, the pride and joy of Japan._

_Why are you lying to him? Just tell him you were spacing out like a dipshit and move on with your life._

“Ah, I see. Do you know what train you are looking for? Do you need help finding it?” _You’re so cute. Where’s your mommy?_

“I think it was the San…en line?”

                “The San-in line? Bound for which city?”

                “Namikawa?”

                “Ah, then you want the train bound for Sonobe. If you want, I can show you there.”

                “No,” she said. “No, I think I can find it on my own. Thank you so much!” She was off into the crowd before he could say another word.  

                --

                Yoshino walked down the sparse country path as slowly as she could manage – which, after four years of Catholic school, was quite slow indeed. She had considered turning back a dozen times – there was a little business hotel just outside of the station, and just outside of that, a little izakaya. She could have spent the night drinking alone – _you’ve got plenty of practice there –_ and then hopped the first train back in the morning. She wouldn’t have had to face Atsushi, and she’d still be able to provide the service he needed.

                Her watch read 4:53. She knew from her intense study of Google Maps that she still had a solid kilometer to walk before she found Sachiko’s house – at this pace, that would be another twenty minutes. Would that force her to sit the game out? She could just sit on the sidelines and drink and check her phone thirty times an hour before saying that she should probably head back to Tokyo as soon as it ceased being rude – maybe nine, at the latest.

                Maybe nobody would even notice her.

                Hell, maybe Rei wouldn’t even be there. That would be convenient. Avoid the inevitable questions. The inevitable singular question.

                The one question she would not be able to answer.

                _Where did you go?_

                Her watch read 5:08. There were no houses by the side of the path now, just little farm fields  And ahead, at the top of a gently sloping hill, a house – large by Tokyo’s standards, not enormous by the standards of anywhere else. And next to it, a little shed. A couple of cars parked in the driveway. _Still time to turn back._

Her watch read 5:12. She was cresting the hill. She heard a burst of laughter from an open window, and then the gentle murmur of comfortable chatter.

_Where did you go? I was the last one to email you. You never responded. Were you that busy being a housewife? How many times can you vacuum the same fucking couch, Yoshino?_

_Still time to turn back._

_Nobody has seen you. Still time to turn back._

_You can just disappear again. Still time to turn--_

                A deep, throaty bark interrupted her thoughts. Then another. Then a steady stream of canine conversation, and there was a dark-brown _something_ streaking towards her, and she barely noticed that the conversation inside had stopped and she flinched backwards—

                The chocolate lab came to a halt a foot in front of her as a sharp voice cracked out from the door like a whip – “Kameko! Leave it!” Immediately, the dog dropped its butt on the ground and began wiggling it around, its tail lashing from side to side in a rhythm completely disconnected from its butt. Its face was split wide in a huge grin, its tongue hanging out, and it seemed to be perched on the edge of anticipation, waiting for her to touch it, to say hi.

                _No more time to turn back. Shit. Shit shit shit what the fuck did I do they’re going to ask me the question._

“Yoshino!” Yumi Fukuzawa’s voice was not built for guile. The genuine pleasure ringing out from the three syllables was as impossible to doubt as gravity. “You made it!”

                “Am…I’m sorry for being late.” 

                “It’s fine, it’s fine!” There was another _something_ streaking towards her, and this one didn’t stop a foot away from Yoshino as the dog had. Yumi just barely _didn’t_ crash headlong into Yoshino, but the hug she was enveloped in was still forceful.

                Kameko seemed to take this as a sign that her own order had been rescinded, and a moment later a sixty-pound dog joined the tangle of limbs, licking Yoshino’s hand and wrist with the kind of simple delight only possible in a dog or Yumi Fukuzawa.

                Eventually, Yumi disengaged from the hug, smoothly grabbing Kameko’s collar as she did, forcing the elated dog to the ground. “I’m so glad you could make it,” she said, meeting Yoshino’s eye. Her smile was absolutely gut-wrenching. “We didn’t think you’d be coming. You never responded to the invite.”

                “I…wasn’t sure if I could make it. Atsushi keeps me pretty busy around the house!” Yoshino lied.  “I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience for…the game?”

                “Of course not,” Yumi smiled warmly. “We thought we were all there so we did start a couple hours back –”

                _Phone, wine, nine o’clock. Thank god._

“But it’s not a problem at all to just write you in as soon as you’re done filling out your character sheet. We can take a break and Sachiko can help you roll your character.”

                Yoshino had not a single solitary clue what most of Yumi’s words meant, so she latched on to the ones that at least seemed like Japanese. “Write…me in?”

                Yumi’s grin turned wry.

“You’ve never played Dee and Dee before, have you?”

                Yoshino was just trying to remember what her cocksure face had looked like the last time she had tried it on when Yumi laughed. “It’s fine, neither have Shimako or Rei. It’s plenty easy, and Sachiko is a kind and merciful God. Come on inside! Have you eaten? More importantly, have you had any booze?”  

                She was being ushered towards the house before she knew what was happening to her, but she managed to collect her wits in time to say – “Rei is here?”

                “Yeah! She was actually here first. She asked about you.”

                _I have to go, say it say I have to go, there’s still time it’s not_

“Hi, Yoshino.”

                Even after two years, Rei’s husky voice was unmistakable. She was standing on the porch, leaning against a bannister with her arms folded underneath her breasts. Her face was a mask of neutrality.

                “Good day, Rei,” Yoshino said automatically.

                “Good day?” Yumi said, laughing. “I think I literally have not said that since we graduated. Not even surrounded by a sentence like ‘today was a good day.’ Come on inside! There’s still some curry left!”

                Yoshino was ushered past Rei into the house. She had time to take in a large, rectangular table positioned near the window, with faces that she recognized even through the bevy of new lines and curves that she didn’t , and then a cheer went up – that age-old cheer for a missing friend, finally arrived to the party:

                “Eyyyyy!”

                Was it a mix of “yay” and “hey”? Was it even derived from words?  Or was it just the friendliest-sounding syllable that could be conjured up on short notice?

                “Yoshino!” came the voice of Sachiko Ogasawara, sitting at the head of the table half-hidden by a large, cardboard screen. “You made it! Did you have trouble finding us?”

                “N…no, I’m sorry for being late.”

                “Not a problem, not a problem at all. Have you eaten?”

                “Already asked and answered,” said Yumi. “She hasn’t had a drop to drink.”

                “Well, shit,” said Sei Satou, sitting to Sachiko’s left idly building a small tower of dice. “Who gives a damn about nutrition, then? There’s wine and sake in the kitchen, or, if you’ve got _real_ ovaries instead of little porcelain imitations, we’ve got beer in the fridge.”

                “Have a care, babe,” said Shimako Toudou, sitting to Sei’s left, a glass of deep red wine in her hand. “Remember what happened last time Yoshino got shitfaced on an empty stomach?”

                “I remember what happened the last time _you_ did,” said Sei playfully. “Huuuuuuurggh.” She used her hands to mime an explosion originating from her mouth.  

                “Did you already roll a character?” asked Sachiko. “Otherwise we can take ten and I can help you out. What would you like to drink? I’m going to assume you need food.” Yoshino had never seen Sachiko so disorganized in her speech, but understood a moment later when she noticed the slight pink flush to her cheeks. How long had they been drinking already?

                “I…”

                “Rei!” Sachiko said to the space behind Yoshino. “Could you get Yoshino a beer and some food? I’m going to help her roll a character.”

                “The fuck you are,” said Sei. “You’ll just encourage her to create somebody that helps you _advance the plot_.” This last, in a tone of exaggerated goodwill. “Yoshino, come into my lair. I’ll help you create someone to fuck with Sachiko.”  Rei walked past Yoshino without a word, headed towards the house’s large, open kitchen. Sei stood, lithely glided past Yumi, and put her arm around Yoshino, leading her towards a set of chairs. “Now, have you ever played before? No? Well, let me teach you about something called the _murder hobo…_ ”

 

* * *

 

                In the end, Yoshino created a rogue, specialized to thieving and deception, rather than combat. What followed over the next four hours was a bit of a blur to Yoshino, who could not deny that she was enjoying herself. Nobody mentioned her long absence from contact with – well, with _all of them._ This was not out of courtesy or social grace – they were engrossed in their characters and in the game. Sei and Yumi, with killing literally everyone and everything they could get away with killing, and Yoshino, hesitantly at first, and then with increasing confidence as experience and alcohol gnawed away at her nerves, with stealing everything she could lay her hands on.

                Eventually, Sachiko called for a halt for the evening, ostensibly because _every ounce of preparation I’ve done has gone straight to hell, and I need some time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with you psychopaths,_ but more likely, because people were starting to have trouble keeping the dice straight.

                Yoshino had to admit a certain level of disappointment as everybody stood and stretched for the first time in hours. In the game, she had felt comfortable interacting with people – even bullshitting with them as they had the last time they’d talked – even Rei, who, predictably, was the only one to play a stoic character dedicated to following the plot.

                But as they stood, the nerves washed over her like a hangover the morning after a bender. They moved towards the couches and chairs set near the entrance, bringing glasses and smiles. Kameko followed Yumi with a dedication that Yoshino found admirable, but as Yoshino moved to follow them, Rei said, in a voice a bit more strained than usual, “Hey Yoshino? Do you have a minute?”

                It was a testament to the Lillian School for Girls’ social education that nobody else in the room explicitly or obviously took an interest in this. The little conversations did not break, nobody looked directly at them, but Yoshino could feel the eyes on her.

_Shit._

_This is the question._

_Where have you been?_

                “Sure,” Yoshino said, and then wished for a moment that she had said something less damning. Something like, _Sorry, I don’t speak Japanese. Could you please switch to Swahili?_

                “Out on the porch?”

                “Sure.”

                “I’ll be right there.”

 

                Yoshino sat on the edge of the deck, her legs dangling off of the side, for a solid minute while Rei fetched her another beer, presumably refilling her own glass of wine while she was at it.  She was in the middle of weighing the chances that she could bolt fast enough for Kameko to lose her scent when Rei emerged into the cool night air. She didn’t look up when Rei sat down next to her and pressed the cold beer against –

                She jumped and uttered a most un-ladylike shriek as the cold against her neck shocked her back into the real world.

                “Shit!” she cried when she could breathe again.

                Rei chuckled. “Been a while since I’ve done that to you.  I would have thought that you’d learn at some point.”

                Yoshino sighed. “This already?”

                “What already?” Rei’s tone of voice said that she knew exactly what.

                Yoshino did not speak for a solid minute. When she finally spoke, she said, “You’re wondering if he hits me. If he takes the battery out of my phone when he leaves the house, if he locks the doors from the outside.”

                Rei said nothing.

                “He doesn’t. He doesn’t do any of those things. I get why you would think that, but he’s a perfect gentleman to me. Never so much as raised his voice. He’s not like Tamaki at all.”

                “I’d rather you didn’t bring him up. He’s not part of this.”

                “I know. I’m just saying. I guess…for this, anyway, it would make a lot more sense.”

                “ _Two years,_ Yoshino. I half-expected your last Christmas card to come addressed _dear sir or madam.”_

                Yoshino said nothing, and they lapsed into silence. Eventually, Rei said, “Nothing? Nothing to offer, or explain, or excuse?”

                “I’ve been looking for an excuse for the last year and eleven months, Rei. You sent me that email, and I meant to respond to it, and then I just didn’t. And then, after that, I started trying to think of good ways to say _sorry I didn’t respond to this_ without admitting that I just hadn’t. That there was no good reason for it.”

                “So I haven’t talked to my best friend in two years because you were _embarrassed?_ ”

                Yoshino said nothing.

                “I was scared that he was hurting you. I was scared that I was going to lose my cousin the same way I almost…”

                “It’s not like you tried, either,” said Yoshino, quietly, before she could stop herself.

                “Excuse me?”

                “You had my number the whole time. My email address. My real address. I don’t know what has been in your head the last two years, but at some point, you didn’t as much as I didn’t.”

                It was Rei’s turn to be silent.

                “If you had really been worried that I had married another Tamaki, why didn’t you come to my house with a baseball bat and three enormous guys who spoke only in grunts and punches? You know Atsushi. You know he’s not like that.”

                “Then _what the fuck happened, Yoshino?_ ” She spoke softly, but the harshness in Rei’s voice startled Yoshino.

                Startled her into bluntness. Startled her into honesty. “ _I don’t know._ I don’t fucking know. Pride? Laziness? Real fucking life?”

                “Real life? What the fuck kind of real life is it where the _only_ important people to us just vanish into the goddamn sunset?”

                “I don’t know,” Yoshino repeated, deflating. “I think in that second month, I was hoping you’d come look for me. By the time I realized you weren’t going to, my pride took over. I didn’t want to be the one to admit that I was just…not as happy without you around. Why didn’t you come look for me?”

                Rei sighed. “I don’t know, either. I’m sure I had a great reason at the time. Something about teaching you about stubbornness, or something. I don’t even remember anymore. After a while, it got so that I just…I checked my email every day, hoping, but not expecting, and I built the narrative. Pretty much the same one you had. Looking back on it, all I can think was, _would it have been so hard to just say I missed you?_ ”

                _Would it have been so hard to just say I missed you?_

                It hit Yoshino like a punch to the gullet.

_Would it have been so hard to just say that, yeah, I need you in my life?_

_Well, I have a husband now. I’m not supposed to_ need _anyone else, right?_

_Yeah. I have a_

_will you still be able to make my dinner tomorrow?_

_Husband. I guess._

“Are you crying?”

                She was.

                “No,” Yoshino said through a face full of tears.

                A moment of startled disbelief, and then they were both laughing.

                “I missed you, Rei,” Yoshino said. She wanted to say more. Wanted to open up about Atsushi, right then and there. But, that wasn’t what this was. Yoshino had enough insight left to understand that if she’d done that, Rei would have never shaken the feeling that she was only back in Yoshino’s life because she needed something.  “I am so sorry. I have no excuses. I will never let it happen again.”

                “I missed you too,” said Rei, her voice tighter than usual. “Next time you forget to email me for a month, I’m showing up at your house with six guys from the dojo.”

                They both laughed.

_I missed you._

_It wasn’t that hard at all. Not once I gave myself permission to say it._

* * *

 

Author’s Note, ending:

This wasn’t really a story about D&D. It probably felt pretty anti-climactic at the end to you, readers, and I think that’s the point. In real life, there’s no big embrace and fade into the sunset. There’s an apology, an admission, and then the resumption of real life. I hope I can do a followup story to this one.

Because, I miss this. I miss writing.  I think that’s what this story was about.

I hope to see you all again real soon.

 

* * *

 

Author’s note, postscript:

I wrote this in two and a half hours on a Sunday morning. There were no edits involved. Please be gentle.


	4. Four

A/N

I think a lot of these A/Ns are just going to be you guys coming on my journey to becoming a fucking writer again. These A/N sections are like 99% personal confessional, 1% things you might actually care about. That fits with the theme of this series though – the central themes of basically every one of these chapters have been something I or somebody I love has struggled with in the past five years or so.

So, you know. Party. Bonus.

For those of you keeping score, _Chicken_ would actually be _やきとり_ _,_ generally using the hiragana, not the kanji. From my time in Japan, there’s very little more promising on a lonely night than the little hanging paper balloons telling you there’s beer and yakitori in a little place down an alley. If you can, you should definitely try it.

Also, “Welcome!” doesn’t really have the same _oomph_ as いらっしゃいません！but it’s the best I can give you.

Sometimes Japanese folks will call barmen _マスター_ _._ I really liked this in _Midnight Diner, Tokyo Stories,_ so I kept it. I’m not sorry.

* * *

Four

* * *

 

 

This year, Yumi was absolutely, definitely, 100% not going to be a dick about Christmas.

She was certainly not going to spend all of her time hiding in one of the Ogasawara Estate’s many entertainment rooms, watching shitty television, reading good books, playing solitaire, and generally doing whatever she could to avoid speaking with Sachiko’s family.

She was definitely not going to find an excuse to leave the estate, hike down to the nearest station, and go visit Shimako and Sei and Yoshino and Rei the day before their annual “friends-mas” event. 

Most importantly, she was by no means going to continue to ask the obvious question of Sachiko. Especially not a few hours after she inevitably finished crying, quietly and privately, after inevitably fighting with her parents, or with Sugaru, or both, the fight escalating to the point where voices were briefly raised, which Yumi was convinced was the normal-person equivalent of a screaming match. She was not going to ask, _why on earth do we keep coming back here?_

She was not going to do this because after she had done this last year, and Mama Fukuzawa had not, god bless her, raised even a single fool. Sachiko refused to speak more than empty pleasantries and the necessary tidbits of information necessary for a household to run for almost two weeks. It had become so unbearably chilly that Yumi had finally sat her down and apologized for being insensitive, for speaking ill of Sachiko’s family, for simply not understanding. This seemed to have satisfied Sachiko, and while Yumi still felt guilty about the duplicity, things had returned to normal afterwards, and the make-up sex alone had been well worth the apology.

Yumi felt guilty for a simple reason: In truth, Yumi didn’t feel bad. She felt _right._ She had made very few false apologies in her life (would someone believe that of a veteran of a Catholic school? Yet it was true enough) Of course, she would have been more than happy to apologize for the way her words had made Sachiko feel, but not for the words themselves. The words themselves had been harsh, maybe, but no less true for it.

Say one thing for Catholic school: Say you learn how to be right _silently._  

So, this year, Yumi was going to be right silently, which she knew was not the same thing as being wrong. She was not going to be a dick about Christmas this year. She was going to go and support her wife and grit her teeth through the passive-aggression, the needling, and the unbearably unfair disappointment of two traditional, rich, traditional-Catholic assholes who would never, deep in their bones, accept the fact that not only their natural-born daughter, but their adopted heir, were both gay, and who thought that this was somehow unlucky.

“Everything okay, Yumi?” Sachiko, sitting in the plush train seat next to her, touched her hand, gently.

 _Such a marvel, that. That touch only ever seems to give me_ more _butterflies as time passes._

Yumi looked away from the window, looking at the seemingly endless city that was Tokyo and its outer suburbs. There had been perhaps a 30 minute stretch of countryside between Kyoto and Tokyo, nearly on opposite sides of the main island.

She smiled at her wife. It was not forced.

“Of course,” she said. “How could it not be? It’s Christmas.” _It’s Christmas and I’m with you._

 _I’m with you and they think that’s_ unlucky, _and maybe, deep in their secret hearts, they think it’s something worse, and I will never, ever forgive them for it._

Sachiko smiled back. “I’m glad. I thought maybe after last year, you might be a little…apprehensive about spending time with my family.”

 _I’m apprehensive about_ you _spending time with your family. I can deal with their shit, because they don’t mean a thing to me._

“I’ll be fine as long as you are,” she said, and knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.

Sachiko frowned a bit. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

_Because your dad is an asshole who can’t reconcile the fact that he loves his daughter but not one big part of her, and your mom thinks that you made the wrong choice being gay now that you’re in your thirties and childless, like she didn’t realize that we wouldn’t be making a baby when you came out to her and it’s only recently dawned on her, and your adopted brother stroke ex-fiancé is a needling asshole who can’t seem to figure out that teasing is meant to be gentle and that it’s not okay to be dismissive or cutting on Christmas._

“Just…that there were some tough…emotions last year.” _Jesus Christ. Tough emotions? Knock it off._

“Ah.” Silence for a moment. “I’m sure it’ll be fine this year.”

_Unlike the seven years leading up to this._

_Stop it. You’re not going to be a dick about Christmas this year. You’re definitely, 300% not going to be a dick about Christmas this year._

“I’m sure it will.”

_See? We’re doing better already. We’re lying._

* * *

 

Say one thing for having rich parents: Say you don’t need to pack much when you’re visiting.  

Four years ago, Sachiko’s parents had taken to stocking the drawers of the guest suite with clothes which, upon examination, fit Yumi and Sachiko perfectly. All were crisply folded, pressed, and best of all, hugely modest. (Could something _be_ hugely modest? Incomparably humble? Toweringly reserved?) Sachiko had postulated that this was a direct result of the plunging neckline of the dress she’d worn at Christmas dinner the year before, which had attracted no untoward looks whatsoever (as the only men present had been family, and Yumi knew how to keep her eyes to herself), save, perhaps, for that of Jesus. 

As a result of this, Yumi and Sachiko had been able to pack very light for the trip – a single bag for each of them, no larger than a large purse, containing makeup and a few other incidentals and unmentionables that Yumi did not care to accept from Sachiko’s parents, even if they _were_ just her size. So, they had resolved not to take a cab or call her family for a ride, but rather to make the fifteen minute trip from Mitaka station on foot.  They’d agreed in advance that they would swear up and down that this was to save money – on gas for the Ogasawaras, on cab fare for themselves. This small jab was, of course, Yumi’s, but Sachiko had agreed to it readily enough.

Really, though, this was an annual tradition that Yumi would not have given up even had they been lugging sacks full of clothes and presents. Tokyo was gorgeous in the winter, triply so on Christmas eve. White, fluffy snow clung to sides of buildings and clothes and rooftops; red and green lights shone from every storefront and windowsill; in alleys, yellow neon lights advertised refuge from the cold with pale constancy.  Small _izakaya_ advertised companionship and laughter in the alleyways, shadowed by towering skyscrapers. The old and the new; the huge and the tiny; the faceless and the intimate; all stood next to one another in Tokyo on Christmas eve, staring skyward into the snow, breath steaming and idle footfalls crunching.

Though the rural area in which they lived, a twenty minute train ride outside of Kyoto, was gorgeous in the winter, the mountains standing white and stoic in the distance regardless of where one was, Sachiko felt honestly that nothing in this world or the next could compare to Tokyo at Christmas.

They walked through the silent, frozen-in-time streets with their hands clasped and tucked into Sachiko’s coat pocket, their bags slung over their shoulders. As they left the immediate vicinity of the station, the buildings quickly reduced in size, giving way from faceless industry to personal residences; from even, rectangular blocks to winding old streets that began centuries ago as walking paths.

The walk should have taken fifteen minutes, tops. Twenty minutes into their walk, Yumi figured it out. “It occurs to me that I haven’t walked this route in,” she said, and then chewed her lip for a moment, thinking, “At least seven years.”

Sachiko smiled, not looking down at her. “Nor I, if I’m honest. They always had a car waiting for me. Easy to forget the way when somebody’s ferrying you down it all the time.”

“Getting a bit chilly, if I’m honest.”

“It is. Sure would be nice,” Sachiko said, and made a right at a corner, nearly pulling Yumi along with her, “If we were to find a place to stop and warm up.”

“I seem to recall it being mostly residential between the station and the, ah, _complex,_ ” Yumi said, and then realized what she was looking at.

She was looking at a snow-covered awning, probably once brown, now mostly white, with a pair of paper lanterns hanging down around eye level, simple writing scrawled on each. On one, _beer_. On the other, _chicken._

“You’re kidding,” Yumi murmured.

“Who’s kidding? I didn’t say a thing.” Sachiko was pretty sure Yumi could hear the smirk in her voice. They’d been married six years - Yumi should have been able to hear one of Sachiko’s smirks half a mile away through two layers of brick.

“You planned this.”

“I planned to be cold on Christmas Eve?”

 Yumi stared up at her for a minute, then two, and then her face broke into a grin. “Fine then. Let’s get a drink and a skewer or three.”

“Hey, you suggested it, not me,” said Sachiko, grinning.

“Because your parents wouldn’t dare get pissed at _me_ for making us late for Christmas, is that it?”

“Oh, they’d get pissed. You’d just never hear about it. They’d stew on it for the rest of the year.”

“I’m comfortable with that.” Yumi was already sliding the wooden door open.

The sound coming from inside wasn’t _familiar,_ exactly, but it did evoke a memory powerful enough to shove Sachiko back six years, just for a moment.

_I wonder if he remembers us._

“Welcome!”

* * *

 

The bar was not entirely empty, but it was a long way from full. In a way, this was comforting to Sachiko – she felt strongly, possibly from her training at Lilian, that someone drinking at a bar on Christmas Eve had more sad circumstances than she cared to hear about.

The bar itself was unremarkable – along the walls were a few high-tops and chairs, clean but certainly a long way from sparkling. The majority of the space was taken up by a massive, rectangular wooden bar, in the center of which stood an old man – _older now, he was still salt-and-pepper last time_ – with a shock of white hair, a clean-shaven face, hard with age and work, standing over a small, sizzling charcoal grill. The scent of frying chicken hit her as soon as she walked in, and she took a moment to breathe it in.

Sachiko considered the privacy of one of the high-tops, but as she did, Yumi took a seat in the center of the bar, a few seats away from an exhausted-looking man in a black suit and tie. The man had been studying a mug beer fairly intently, but now looked up, and he flashed them both a small smile. Yumi smiled back. “Tough night?” she asked.

“Every night is tough,” he said, but he said it without any hint of self-pity. A true grunt in Japan’s economic war machine. “But a pair of pretty girls sure makes it a bit easier.”

“Excuse me,” Yumi said. “We’re _women_. I’m nearly thirty.” Somehow, this struck Sachiko like a thirteen year-old saying, _excuse me, I’m a grown-up. I’m nearly_ fifteen, and she started to giggle.

“Don’t drive the customers off, Yamazaki,” said the man in the center of the bar. “Christmas is tough for lots of folks. I’m probably losing money tonight.”

“You’re doing a public service, _master,_ ” said Yamazaki. “Giving us poor shitkickers a place to snag a drink or three before we…well, I guess I don’t want to make assumptions,” he said, nodding at the pair.

“Family for us,” Yumi said, as Sachiko took a seat next to her. “You?”

“Family,” Yamazaki agreed. “Can’t live with them, go to jail for killing them.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Sachiko chimed in.

Yamazaki took a pull off his beer. “It’s not,” he agreed. “It’s just that there are so damn _many_ of them at Christmas time. It’s like they multiply.”

“It’s supposed to be a happy time.”

“Says who? We’re ostensibly celebrating the birth of a man who was born to get strung up to rectify a fundamental self-contradiction in a holy text. We’re celebrating a lazy _deus ex machina_ in the world’s most read novel.”

Yumi snorted. Sachiko frowned.  

“ _Yamazaki,_ ” the old barman said. “Maybe a pair of proper Catholic ladies aren’t the best two to be preaching at about religion.”

“Catholics?”

“Yeah,” Yumi said.  “Who said anything about—”

The old barman gave her a quiet smile. “What can I get for you this evening?”

“Eight skewers, your recommendation, with salt,” Sachiko said. “A beer for her, and a _hai-chu_ for me.”

“Comin’ up,” the barman said.

Yamazaki took another drink from his beer, and stood up, laying some bills on the table. “I better be about it,” he said, and then paused a moment. “Sorry if I offended.”

“You didn’t offend me,” Yumi said. “I’m an atheist.”

“You only offended me a little,” Sachiko said. “I’m very nice.”

Yamazaki laughed. “Well then, I’ll count myself lucky. Good luck tonight.”

The two women both gave a small bow. Yamazaki flashed them one more smile, and exited. The little bell on the door jingled once, twice, and then fell silent. A moment later, the old barman placed a single plate with eight skewers in front of them. A moment after that, a foaming mug of beer for Yumi, and a tall, thin glass of clear, sweet liquid for Sachiko. The plate smelled _heavenly –_ they had opted to skip the typical bullet train food, thinking they’d be plenty hungry for the inevitable feast at the Ogasawara compound, but they had probably overestimated themselves.

“Two each diaphragm, heart, skin, and thigh,” the barman said. “You said salt, but I recommend the diaphragm with sauce, so I took the liberty.”

“I trust you,” Sachiko said with a smile.

The smell hit Yumi and knocked her back seven years. She smiled at the food, and then at the barman. “It smells delicious, master.”

“I’m honored,” said the old man. “I love repeat customers.”

 “How on earth do you remember us?” asked Sachiko as Yumi tore – ungraciously, and that was Sachiko being generous – into the skewer full of crisp skin and green onions.

“I remember most of my customers,” the old man said. “They’re my family.”

Sachiko’s heart fell. She had no response to that.

“Besides,” he said. “Two lovely women wandering into my bar on Christmas Eve, having just gotten engaged, scared to death of telling their parents, and needing a couple of drinks and some human interaction to take the edge off? I told my wife that story for years.”

Sachiko couldn’t bring herself to ask what had happened to his wife. She remembered the woman – plump, cheerful, her own curly, black hair starting to go white – bustling between the kitchen and the bar. If he was still open on Christmas, she felt like she could guess.

“You must not live around here. I think your wife loves my food – if you did, you’d be in more than twice per decade.”

“We live in Kyoto. Well, near-ish to Kyoto.”

“That’s lovely. What do you both do for a living? Last time you were here, you were still students, I think.”

“Sachiko’s a writer,” Yumi jumped in, and Sachiko took the opportunity to take a skewer of diaphragm. The sauce was tangy and delicious, the meat pleasantly rubbery and salty. “You might have read her books. She won the New Author award about five years back.”

The old man smiled. “I will investigate the book shop when it re-opens. What’s your pen name?”

“Sachiko,” Yumi said. “Just Sachiko.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to find it. What about you?”

“I teach. Elementary school.”

The man broke into a wide grin. “Children, then. How wonderful.”

“Do you…have children?”

“I did,” the old man said. “Now I have a pair of adults who come to see me sometimes.” He smiled a bit. “Fine, fine adults.”

Yumi smiled. There didn’t seem to be much else to say.

They finished their meal. Feeling frisky, they each had a shot of whisky for the road, and then they paid their bill. The old barman smiled and thanked them warmly as they slid that old, wooden door open, enjoying the gentle sound of the bell, and vanished back into the crisp winter evening, towards a difficult weekend, their spirits lifted considerably.

* * *

 

Post script:

I’m not really sure what the point of this one was. It’s based on a story from my own engagement. I’m not going to go into detail, but long story short, there’s a little bar and yakitori joint in Tokyo, by Daimon station. My wife and I have been there every time we’ve been to Japan. They didn’t precisely remember us every time, but with a bit of reminding and a picture or two, they recalled. The most recent time, we came in immediately after getting engaged, and they were hugely excited to have been part of it. I’m excited to go there again on our honeymoon.

It’s just a lovely feeling to be remembered happily by strangers. I think that’s what I’m getting at. It can even take the edge off of a difficult family interaction.

Maybe there’ll be a part two of this. Maybe I’ll show you a difficult family interaction. God knows I have enough source material.

But then, maybe not, too. 

 


End file.
